


on your knees

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: Kinktober 2017 [10]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Graves' Estate, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Master/Servant, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of homophobia, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Power Dynamics, Stable Hand Credence, Young Percival Graves, master/servant relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 11:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12341523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: “Credence,” Graves murmurs, “Look at me.”Credence disobeys. He seems to be good at that, at ignoring his master. Perhaps Ma was right about that as well – that Credence is stupid as well as wicked.





	on your knees

**Author's Note:**

> Master + Servant AU set in Edwardian Era England. No magic in this one, sorry! Credence is the Graves' stable hand and gardener. Graves is about the same age as Credence, and a shit disturber.

**October 12 th – Hand-jobs + Master/Servant**  
  
A crack of thunder has Credence swearing and throwing down his book. It skids across the dining table, coming dangerously close to hitting the candle stick at the end, but Credence is already gone from the room. As he races down the hall to the door, he glances outside every window he passes. It’s like hell has descended, the sky filled with the angry bellies of storm clouds and rain pelting down.   
  
In the paddocks far below the estate, the horses are galloping along the fence line, calling. The wind rips through the trees, pulling moans from them as if they’re dying men. Credence throws the door open and bolts out into the deluge. Instantly, his white shirt is plastered to his skin. He pulls dripping hair from his eyes while picking his way down the rocky and narrow path to the very bottom fields. Halters and ropes hang from the gates; Credence takes them, fumbling with the knots for half a second before hopping the gate with them in hand. Already, his fingers are growing cold, things becoming too slick or awkward to handle properly.   
  
The horses quiver and snort and paw, each eager to be inside in their warm boxes than out here in this. Credence opens the latch on the gate and pushes it wide, leading all three from their paddock and up the slippery slope to the stables. He slips once or twice, but the horses are sure, the metal of their shoes giving them a little more traction in the muddy earth than Credence’s shoes.  
  
By the time they get to the stables, the knees of his trousers are dirty, and mud splashes all the way up to his chest. Mrs. Picquery will have his head, but Credence can’t think about that now. Instead, he takes each of the horses to their box and locking them up tight before heading back down.   
  
And the rain just keeps coming. On his third trip up, Credence slips badly, tearing his pants. Pain bites into his skin just as the cold does, forcing Credence to grit his teeth against it. He hobbles the rest of the way up, blood dripping down his knee.   
  
When it’s all done, he lets out a great panting sigh, leaning back against a wall and closing his eyes, feeling the pull of air in his lungs and the way his knee throbs dully. He could almost sleep standing – the cold sucking energy from his bones like it’s water being drawn from a well, in great buckets. He’s _so tired_ \-   
  
“Credence?”   
  
A gentle voice shocks Credence from his exhaustion. Immediately, his spine stiffens, chest out and eyes front and center. He moves away from the stall just enough to be visible but not enough to stand out, staying as still and quiet as he was taught. Footsteps echo down the cobble stone aisle as expensive shoes carry Lord Percival Graves to him. The man has his jacket over his forearm, wide shoulders filling his soft cream coloured shirt splendidly.   
  
“Good afternoon, Lord Graves,” Credence replies stiffly. He wants to avert his eyes, doesn’t want to look at this devastatingly handsome man and _remember_. Graves frowns, slightly,   
  
“Please Credence, it’s just me.”  
  
Credence bites his tongue, shifting minutely and trying not to favour his sore knee. But Graves, the clever man he is, sees anyways. Credence can tell by the sudden deepening of the frown, the way his impressive eyebrows cant.  
  
“You’re hurt.”   
  
It’s not a question but a statement. Graves draws closer, until he is in Credence’s space, dropping his jacket – probably worth more than Credence makes in a month – to dusty cobble like it is nothing. He follows it, easing to his knees to inspect Credence’s injuries. The stable hand yelps and jerks away, voice raising into a high, startled pitch,   
  
“My lord, stop! It isn’t proper!”  
  
He yelps again when Graves’ hand, so large and warm, wraps around his scrawny calf, stilling him. Still, Credence mumbles out protests, voice quivering.  
  
“M-my lord… Please… You shouldn’t…”  
  
“You are hurt,” Graves says again, peeling the torn fabric away from Credence’s bloodied knee, “We must clean this. Before it gets infected.”  
  
Credence shudders at his touch. It is so gentle, but firm in the way Credence relishes. He can’t help but think back to the last time Graves touched him, the pleasure he brought… Credence groans, head falling back against pine boards. On the other side, he can hear the mare breathing and snuffling as she noses through her hay. Can hear the gentle chewing of content creatures. He listens to that for a moment, trying to distract himself while Graves looks at his other knee. Then Graves pushes himself to his feet, joints cracking, and takes Credence’s hand. He leads him through the aisle, down into a room tucked away with a basin and a toilet.   
  
“Sit,” Graves demands, turning to collect fresh linen from a cupboard beside the wash basin and turns on the faucet. It squeaks loudly in the sudden silence. Graves spins around again, damp cloth in hand, and cocks a brow at Credence, who is still standing.  
  
“Remove your trousers and sit,” he repeats, tone hardening. Graves isn’t used to being ignored – Credence knows it would be wise to listen. Almost on their own accord, his hands fall to the fastenings of his trousers, undoing them swiftly and letting them fall to the floor. When he looks down, his left knee is a mess of muck and blood trickling down his shin.   
  
“ _Sit_ ,” Graves says for a third time. Credence sits. Graves gets to his knees again, dabbing at Credence’s cuts with the damp cloth. When Credence tries to protest, he’s hushed with a sharp glance and the hiking of a brow. So he sits still and shuts up, letting his lord and master clean his wounds and trying not to feel horribly out of place.   
  
At this proximity, Credence is very aware of the warmth radiating off Graves, of the power hidden in that lithe frame, of the rich tang of his cologne – no doubt expensive and far too fine for Credence. Without thinking, he inhales deeply. Something inside him stirs, something very, very wrong. His memory kicks into gear, pulling up images and sights and sounds and the ghosts of sensations Credence would almost rather forget.   
  
He remembers the way Graves sighed, when Credence swallowed him down, the way he tasted when they kissed, the way Graves lay beside him in the morning and looked on in adoration, stroking locks of raven black hair from Credence’s face.   
  
That thing inside him stirs a little more violently, beginning deep in his belly and ending at the tip of his cock. Heat blooms in Credence’s cheeks as the weight of his thoughts outcompetes the sting in his knee. He bites his lip and shuts his eyes, not daring to look down at the way his length grows under the material of his underwear. Hearing the hitch in Graves’ breathing is enough.   
  
“Credence,” Graves murmurs, “Look at me.”  
  
Credence disobeys. He seems to be good at that, at ignoring his master. Perhaps Ma was right about that as well – that Credence is stupid as well as wicked. His eyes remain shut, lip remains bitten, heart beginning to thunder in his chest like a spurred horse, running away and leaving the rest of him to suffer.   
  
“ _Credence_ ,” Graves says again, with more heat, tone sharpening like the edge of a razor. Credence whines, but peels his eyes open. The man before him gazes upon Credence with some sort of holy reverence, coffee-dark eyes filling with lust and intrigue.   
  
“You don’t have to be ashamed.”  
  
His nose wrinkles, face pulling with disbelief. Graves meets his expression with open ended gentleness.   
  
“It’s wrong,” Credence says, “I s-shouldn’t want you. You’re a man… And you are my lord.”  
  
Graves hums, edging closer, so close he’s almost flush with his stable hand. Oh, if Ma could see them now. Credence’s blush grows, creeping down his cheeks and neck, to hide in the dip of his collarbones. His cock twitches, the bulge in his underwear growing.   
  
“I’m your friend,” the other man whispers, caressing Credence’s leg, “Please Credence, let me make you feel good?”  
  
Credence chokes on a sob. He’s weak, too weak to say no, to stop the hurricane force of this man, barely older than Credence’s twenty years, who threatens to throw him onto the rocks and ruin him at any moment. Graves lets out a shaky, excited sigh, helping Credence lift his hips and peel his underwear down his legs to follow the way of his pants. His cock bobs free, flushed in the dim light of the toiletry.   
  
Graves admires for a moment, hungry, before he takes Credence’s cock and guides it to his lips.   
  
“No!”   
  
Graves starts, jerking back. He blinks, eyes wide and confused, pupils rocketing outwards. In a rush, Credence bends forward over his master, babbling an explanation.   
  
“Please… Anything but that. Don’t debase yourself like that.”  
  
He very pointedly does not think of that night, when he’d taken Graves into his mouth, made the man whimper and moan and sigh with just his tongue and lips and a few, clever touches. He very pointedly does not think about the state of his own soul, instead focusing on saving as much of Graves’ as he can. The man raises a brow, brain clearly drawing the same connection as Credence, but Graves says nothing of it. Instead, he murmurs, “Alright, Credence, alright.”  
  
The slide of his fingers over Credence’s cock is glorious. The stable hand throws his head back with a choked off cry, hips pushing upwards. Graves hums, happy, working his hand up and down Credence’s length. He thumbs at the crown, already growing slick, and uses it as some perversion of oil to ease the way. Credence moans wantonly, spine arching and guiding his pelvis closer to Graves, as if to encourage him. It must work, because the man chuckles and twists his hand just so. Pleasure rockets up Credence’s spine, tearing a surprised gasp from him.  
  
“I do love to see you like this,” Graves confesses. His voice has plunged in pitch, taking on a lust roughened growl which has the tiny muscles in Credence’s back tightening. The coil winds in his lower belly quickly. Credence thinks he might just come from the timbre of Graves’ voice alone, and wouldn’t that be a sight to see?  
  
“Oh-oh… Oh god… Graves’.”  
  
“You’re so beautiful, Credence. Moaning for me. I do love it so.”  
  
That dark head dips, a pink tongue flickering out to give an experimental lap at the wet head of Credence’s cock. The stable hand bucks up, crying out.   
  
“Jesus!”  
  
Graves laughs, eyes shining. He picks up rhythm and dips his head again to suckle at the head. Credence wails, stuffing his fingers in his mouth. He’s too close to string a coherent sentence together, much less warn Graves properly. His balls lift, the fine musculature around the base of his cock tightening, and Credence spills all over Graves’ face. He comes moaning, fingers tight on the lid of the toilet.  
  
Graves sits back, splashes of white painting his pretty face and dark lashes. Credence blushes, chasing down the vestiges of his orgasm in order to clear his head. He starts to apologize, but Graves holds up a hand.   
  
“It’s nothing I didn’t ask for, Credence.”  
  
Credence disagrees, of course he does, but choses to remain silent. He does take Graves hanky from him though, wiping his spend off the other man’s face. When he’s clean, Credence stands and fixes his livery, tucking the soiled fabric in his pocket. Graves gets to his feet, and takes Credence’s hand.  
  
“C’mon now,” he murmurs softly, “I think the rain’s stopped. The horses are fine, let’s get you inside and into something dry.”  
  
He doesn’t talk about what’s just happened, or the fact that he’s got a noticeable bulge in his trousers, but Graves never does. So Credence follows.


End file.
